Fukamoriji Shiki
by Scribe Figaro
Summary: The record of the temple where Mushin now resides tells the story of the monk who was cursed by Naraku, and the family born to revenge him.


**Fukamoriji Shiki**

深森守私記

_**(Deep Woods Temple Records)**_

**by Scribe Figaro**

_I teach one thing, and one thing only.  
That thing is suffering, and the end of suffering.  
-Buddha_

* * *

**Hatsuyuki  
1517**

* * *

When I close my eyes, I see red and yellow. 

When I cover my ears with my hands, I hear the ocean of flames.

When I dream, I do not hear the screaming. I feel the heat, the sweat drawn from my skin like a sponge being squeezed, my hands slippery with it, my toes digging into the rough hemp of my sandals, and now all the water that was in me is now outside me, and I am boiling, the hair on my head withers, the milk in my breast curdles, my clothes burn and flake off like fish scales, and I spread my arms and offer myself to the hot winds, the hell-winds, thick with the dust of my neighbors, my children, my husband, and the ashes adhere to my skin, turn dark grey with salty wet, and they form a crust upon my forehead and cheeks, and on my neck the ashes ride rivulets of sweat, and a heavy white flake that is no doubt my husband presses against my cheek, cartwheels down my chest, and sticks to my belly, where he had six times placed his seed, and I clasp my hands before my chest and with a heaving sigh I dry up and peel away.

The winds then turn, hungry for air, hungry for fuel, and I am drawn in, my hair whipping about my face, and the hell-winds draw in, and the hell-winds consume.

Throughout this, my son, my youngest, too young to stand, bears witness to the fury, the demon in the fire, the curse of the unholy winds that draws all things into itself, be they living or nonliving, for all satisfy the source of this demonic force equally, which is to say, it cannot be satisfied at all.

My son stares at the hell-winds with stoic fascination. He would grow to be a master of the hell-winds, a witness of their fury. He would see his teacher die to the hell-winds. He would see his half-brother die to the hell-winds. And he would dedicate his life to prevent the hell-winds from claiming the life of his brother's son.

It has been eight years since my family was consumed in Nagoya.

I have not loved another man since then.

But I have been comforted.

And I have born a child of that comfort.

And, thankfully, I do not dream often.

* * *

I was born in the last month of the year 1470, and thus my mother named me Hatsuyuki. My father was a craftsman, and sometimes he made small trinkets and toys and my mother would bring them into town to sell them on the streets. When I grew older I went into town with her, and in Nagoya we shared a meal with a family of artisans whose skill and manner impressed my father, and within a year I was married to their son, and living in a small but comfortable home just off the main street. My husband made wood carvings, and thus spent much of his time near the other end of town, so to pass the time I made soba noodles and sold them on the streets. With him I bore six children. I will not name the first five, because they are dead. My sixth child was named Kokagemaru. He was with me on the street at the time of the Nagoya fire, in the late summer of 1509. 

The fire was the worst in history. Thirty blocks were destroyed. There were a hundred people on the street with me, unable to do anything but stare as everyone we had in the world was consumed. I was thankful for the numbness that came over me, and with my child on my back and a week's worth of pay in my clothes, I walked out the east gate and continued to walk east until I was no longer able.

For three weeks I traveled blindly, sustaining myself and my son on the food I could buy with the money I had in my pockets. At first I thought I might return to my parents' home, but I passed the village by a wide berth. I thought I might continue to the sea. After the first week I no longer had enough money to feed myself. Two weeks later, I could not feed my son either, and it was obvious then that the only choice was to abandon Kokagemaru to a monastery, so that I might continue my journey to the sea. I did not know what I would do when I reached the eastern edge of the world, but this was not a great concern as it was clear I would die before that happened.

I cannot remember much about the monk that first day. I did not see him at first, when I came onto the temple grounds, and I felt alone and serene when I sat upon the temple steps and fed Kokagemaru. He fussed at the breast, and I apologized to him, for my milk was thin as water by then, but I had some bean paste for him as well, the last morsels of food we had left, and he slept after that. I made him comfortable, wrapped in a kimono, and there I prayed for my child.

I remember leaving my child. I do not remember leaving the temple grounds. My next waking moment was the oil-lamp beside me, the soft blanket over me, my child still sleeping beside me, and the monk, a bald, clean-shaven man near his fiftieth year, standing in the doorway with a look of stern detachment.

"I am alone in this temple, so it is impossible for you to leave your child here," he said to me. "When he is five years old I can take him as my student, if he shows the proper disposition for it. You may stay here until then."

* * *

I recovered. The monk spoke little to me, but when I spoke he would stand still and listen, and for that reason I think I talked far too much to him. He spent most of his hours meditating, writing, and cleaning the temple, and still he was diligent in watching the child I had given him, despite his insistence that he could not care for him. I began taking up the temple responsibilities, cooking at first, then cleaning. It was a small temple, merely a lecture hall, a tiny shrine building, and a few storage buildings in various states of disuse and disrepair, but even the smallest annex was many times larger than the home I had been accustomed to cleaning. I did not understand how the monk could do so much work himself. 

Three months passed before I built up the courage to ask about the bandage on his hand, covered by the sacred beads. He brushed it off as an old wound, but I knew old wounds did not require such elaborate bandages. The mystery ate at me, and though I knew it was impolite to do so, I begged him to tell me. Still, he would not speak of it.

One day, making sure my son was comfortable, sleeping, and safe for at least a few hours, I left him in the temple and quietly followed the monk to one of his secret appointments.

I could not help it. I had only my son and the monk. My son was not a mystery to me. So the vast majority of my idle hours were spent probing the monk's past. Direct questioning did not get me far; I felt it was time for something more clever.

I would never have called myself educated, or worldy, but I would like to have thought I was at least _aware_. I knew there were such things as demons. I knew monks fought them. And yet, I was unprepared for what I found.

In fact, I don't think I can properly describe what I found.

There were demons. Demons like I had never seen. Writhing things. Snake-like things. Cackling, maddening, swooping. They swarmed the valley the monk walked, and he stood like he was made of stone, letting the creatures swirl about him, and when they came close enough he swung with his staff in fast, deliberate, almost rhythmic movements, like a man beating a drum, and the creatures cried out and collapsed into formless smoke and ash.

I was horrified. I was fascinated. The fear, the thrill, started at my feet, rooting them firmly to the earth, and from there worked upward, filling me like hot sand, heavy and warm.

It would have been well if I this strange paralysis, this fear-drunk stupor, this sexual excitement of seeing a man who danced as he killed, artistic, animalistic, had come some moments later, but my luck was such that I was mesmerized and stricken stupid just as I came over a tiny ridge, just before moving into the trees and obscuring myself, and for that reason I stood at the edge of the road, at nearly the top of the gently sloping hill, in perfect silhouette against the rising moon.

In hindsight, it was surprising that it took so long for the attentions of the demons to turn toward me.

In a lull of the fight against the monk, the demons circled him, and in circling there came appoint in the circle where each looked directly at me, and after a second revolution each one of them sailed off a tangent line, one after another, and raced toward me

It happened so quickly I did not even have time to fear for my life, for when the danger of the situation struck me, and I realized how close those sharp teeth and sinewy arms had come to my face, the danger had already passed, and the monk was gripping his right wrist tightly.

I fell to my knees and picked up the pieces of my memory, all scattered out of order. There were the hell-winds, there were the demons, and there was the monk's cry of surprise. There was the other utterance, the word that was spoken as an invocation, or a prayer, a taunt to the demons, or a warning to me.

_Kazaana!_

The hole from which the winds came. The hell-winds, drawing in dirt and grass and, this time, demons, tearing at my hair, my clothes, my skin, sucking the breath from my mouth and nose, the roar of untold storms, all directed by the monk's right hand, and when the demons were no more he closed his hand, wrapped the beads around them, and gripped his arm tightly.

Still gripping his right wrist, blood seeping between the fingers of the tightly-closed fist, his staff in the crook of his arm, he stopped at the place where I lay on my knees, addressing me without looking at me directly.

"I am finished here," he said.

I stayed several steps behind him as we returned to his temple.

* * *

The Kazaana is a fearful thing. 

I had thought at first it was a weapon bartered from some demon, so that the monk could become more powerful.

I was not correct in this belief.

I was so incorrect that I wish I had not asked him if this was the case as we returned to the temple.

"Stand on one leg."

The monk stood still before me, having stopped short and turned to me, embarrassing me with overt attention and command, and I stood still for a moment, hands clasped before me, ready to bow apologetically, but not certain why.

"Stand on one leg," he said again, and, with a poor attempt to hide my confusion, I pulled my kimono up to my knees and hooked my right leg upward, balancing on my left.

"Stay that way for a moment." He made his hand into a fist.

"This mark on my hand is not a thing I have asked for. It is a curse. The Kazaana is a hole that leads to an unholy void. The display you have just seen was my weakening of a spell to control the curse. That spell must be maintained at all moments or the Kazaana will open and draw in everything and everyone which comes near. This spell is not difficult to maintain, but it requires a sort of stamina which tires me and perhaps makes me older in appearance than you might think.

"Like standing on one leg, it is not difficult to do this in a brief and deliberate act. But tell me, how long can you continue this? All day? Can you sleep this way, maintaining balance? Would you sleep well, if you could sleep at all? Deeply? Could you maintain this balancing act for four years?"

I felt ashamed of my own callous assumptions about men and demons.

"I don't think I could do something like that."

"You would if you had to. If the alternative was the continual destruction of everything around you, you would learn."

Something changed in the monk as he spoke, though it was most obvious with has last words, I realized later his tone and countenance softly softened as we spoke that day out on the road. It was clear I was the first person he had burdened with the knowledge of the Kazaana, and the ability to share this with another must have been much like one of his meditations, or purifying rituals, or whatever monks do for these things which weight down the soul.

He smiled. "I talk too much for a proper monk," he said.

We returned to the temple.

* * *

For four years he has been doing this balancing act, and he would continue until the day he died. 

I should have let the Kazaana stay a forbidden thing, but I could not help myself, and as days passed I learned more and more of this strange curse.

I would learn that the pain of resealing the curse was akin to taking one's finger in a hand and deliberately snapping it. Once opened, the Kazaana was an unchained, hungry animal. Reapplying those chains was not an easy task, and succeeding at this task resulted in what could only be described as the Kazaana's fiendish snapping at the flesh to which it was inexorably bound, progressively claiming more and more of its human host.

I would learn that the author of this death-mark was the demon Naraku. As I said before, I am aware of demons, but not to the level of a monk, and certainly not to the extent that I would know such cursed creatures by proper name. But the name gave me a shudder regardless; that a demon could survive long enough to require a name was one thing, but to give itself a name so elemental was quite another, and that humans would oblige this demon and defer to that name was frightful indeed.

Little was known about the creature, except that it was talented at shape-shifting and manipulative arts, and that the monk fought it on many occasions over the course of several years. Naraku escaped each time, and on the last occasion, four years ago, he pierced the monk's right palm with a cursed scroll. There the Kazaana formed, and done in such a way that the monk had sufficient time to devise a seal to hold the curse. The demon Naraku escaped and hid himself for some sinister purpose.

It is not certain what purpose the curse serves. That the demon bothered to make his last statement to the monk – "Even if you should die, this Kazaana will go to your child" – suggests Naraku expected the monk to survive for a long while. It is possible the demon's statement and the curse were an attempt to manipulate the monk into having no children, so that his bloodline and the demon-slaying skills within it would not threaten Naraku whenever he returned. The monk seems to think the curse was just some skill the demon crafted up as a test of his own powers. He tells me it is dangerous to try to read too deeply into the intentions of a demon.

* * *

I admit some embarrassment on my part on the later events. I am not ashamed, and I do not regret. But I find it hard to explain myself. I did not love the monk, but neither did I pity him. I respected him, but I did not fear him. I did not feel indebted to him, but I had something which was important to him, and it seemed appropriate to serve a purpose greater than myself. 

I told him I would provide him a son, if he desired one, and when that son came of age I would cease to be a mother. I would shave my head and take my vows.

I don't think either of us enjoyed the sex very much. I suppose, when one is intending a lifetime of celibacy, one holds that last act of intercourse at arm's length, and forces it to be joyless. It is a way to ease later desire.

If I were to live in Kyoto, where I am told there are delicious cakes, and I knew that I would leave that place and no longer have delicious cakes, I would hope that last cake was so bitter and foul that I would never again desire such cake.

The monk was not a foul cake.

Merely average.

But vital. One sexual congress was sufficient; our son was born in early autumn and named Hagemaru..

He and his older half-brother became childhood friends, and I gradually removed myself from their lives.

Today the boys have come of age, and so have I, so all three have taken our vows. We are no longer mother and sons; we are merely students, and there is no family, only Buddha's Law. It is a thing of great comfort.

I took the name Sen.

Hagemaru, the child I and the monk shared, seven years old this year, took the name Shingen.

Kokagemaru, the child who was mine, took the name Mushin.

Today, the children are no more mine than the monk is mine. I call him Oshou-sama now, but here in this journal I can write that his name is Musou.

I write this account of the last part of my life in the outbuilding of the temple hall, in the room which is my home. That part of my life is ended. Now there is only Buddha. Now there is only peace.

_Namu Amida Butsu._

* * *

**Mushin  
1525**

* * *

Musou-sama left this world today. 

I find it important for me to write this down somewhere.

It feels proper to write such a thing.

I feel sadness, knowing it is a futile feeling. I do not fight this feeling.

I am sixteen years old and the temple is now mine.

Musou-sama decreed this.

My fellow student, my friend, my brother, Shingen, is making preparations for his departure.

Musou-sama decreed this also.

Shingen will travel and seek the demon Naraku.

I will maintain the temple and work on my healing arts.

We are both dedicated to destroying the Kazaana.

Shingen intends to accomplish this by finding and defeating Naraku.

I intend to accomplish this by dispelling the curse.

I have already gained the skill necessary to sew the skin and bind the flesh around the Kazaana, strengthening it and preventing the fractures which accelerate the curse's growth.

It is a skill requiring great dexterity and the use of both hands. It is somewhat ironic, then that Musou-sama taught me this skill which he himself could not use. He had me train on him, knowing my mistakes –and there were many – shaved precious years off his life. He knew this was necessary for me to obtain the knowledge to ensure Shingen would have a proper doctor when his turn came to carry the curse.

Musou-sama died at the age of sixty-five. The Kazaana consumed him for twenty years. Shingen manifested the curse within a minute or so of Musou-sama's death. He had the binding ready, of course; when Shingen was ten years old he dropped the rosary in the prayer hall, and when Musou-sama found the forgotten beads he beat Shingen half to death. Shingen did not forget again, and on this time, when the Kazaana asserted itself on his hand, he was ready. I could tell it was painful; when the color began to return to his face I took his hand and made sure everything was well. There were some cracks, but nothing serious. I will do the repairs before he leaves tomorrow, strengthening the sides well enough that he can count on the Kazaana as a weapon of desperate measure without unnatural risk to himself.

The old woman ascetic, Sen, is taking care of the funeral preparations for Musou-sama.

I don't know how long Shingen will be able to survive with the Kazaana.

It is important I make no mistakes.

I must study.

* * *

**Shingen  
1530**

* * *

I am a failure. 

Little more need be said.

My father and instructor had grand hopes for me, but I have not found this Naraku, nor even found any evidence this Naraku has been seen for the past quarter-century.

I am not in love, but I am having repeated sexual encounters with a woman I am attracted to.

I am paying her money for this privilege, but I doubt I would feel differently about her if I wasn't.

Her name is Saiko, and she is a 14-year-old brothel girl in Asakusa. Her story is like practically every other girl in such places – her father's love for gambling challenged only by his incompetence at gambling, eventually racking up a tab comparable to a Kansai fiefdom. Daughter is taken for collateral. Likely her new owners found a way to arrange it so her room and board are more costly than whatever money she makes, so even while being prostituted she's racking up debt.

She tells me I was her first, and that she doesn't see any other men but me. I'm certain she's lying, and I'm glad she lies. She did not do the things she was supposed to do after I came in her, or at very least, she did not do them properly, and thus she committed the cardinal sin of a prostitute and allowed a client's child to grow in her belly. A few other circumstances combined here which made it somewhat easy to obtain her freedom.

First, the mysterious death of her father. Not so mysterious, really; a man with so many debts has no lack of enemies, and when you get a man like that drunk and then beat him and drown him in the Sumidagawa, people are going to assume he simply fled town. If by some chance his body is found, the same conclusion will be drawn, if one substitutes "town" with "this world." And that too is dependent on whether or not the body is found by anyone who cares enough to report it, and the officials care enough to investigate, which simply does not happen for a gambler who made his daughter a whore. Whatever the case, Saiko was no longer collateral against a collectable debt.

Second, the disappearance of Saiko's potential customers besides myself. There were some rumors of alleyway beatings, of course no one got a good look, or perhaps all of them were too fearful to give any details. Whatever the case, Saiko wasn't making any money anymore.

So her contract came up to grabs, and the third thing came up, a horrible demon infestation in the brothel, and conveniently I was around and able to make use of my services. Saiko's contract was sufficient payment.

We live together in the temple now. It is winter, and our child will be born in the spring. She wants to give him a Buddhist name, that he might be a monk from birth, like Prince Shoutoku. Something hopeful. Something to rescue Saiko from her shameful lot in life, and from my cursed legacy. I think of my time in Kansai, the pilgrimage to the great temple for Prince Shoutoku at Houryuuji, and I recall the peace I felt in viewing the images of the Miroku Buddha. The Buddha that Will Be, the Peaceful God who will end this world of suffering.

It is my greatest hope that I live long enough to see Naraku defeated, so that my son Miroku does not ever feel the Kazaana rip open his hand and softly count down the days until his death.

If I fail – when I fail – I hope my son is not too disappointed in me.

When I fail, I hope my son does not hate me for laying such a burden on my child.

When I fail, when I die, I hope Miroku does not bear witness to his father's helplessness.

* * *

**Sen  
1531**

* * *

Shingen, who was once my son, is not well. 

He has strayed far from the Path.

He has Lost the Way.

He has loved too deeply.

I bear no ill will toward the woman Saiko, who bore Shingen a child. I am quite enamored with her. I have experienced childbirth, and witnessed bad childbirth, and I empathized with her pain. If Shingen had asked me, I would have told him not to bring this girl here, not to expect a son from her, for her body was too frail, her hips too narrow, and had Saiko asked me, I would have told her never to become pregnant, for her body would not survive. But such things are not my business.

Shingen is not taking her death well.

I am forced to care for Miroku while he grieves.

He is a very quiet child.

I worry about Shingen, and whether he will grieve for me as badly.

I don't think he will. Neither Shingen nor Mushin have expressed much interest in their families, aside from Shingen being aware that Musou is his father, and as such I have had no reason to tell either of them that I am their mother. I am a fixture in this temple; nothing more. When I die, which may be soon, as each winter has chilled me and sickened me more than the winter before, I hope they remember the Teachings and treat my passing with the solemn acceptance that death demands.

I hope Shingen will be a proper father to his son. He walks in a daze now, but in lucid moments he comes to my room to see Miroku, and he seems almost afraid of the infant child. I think he is ashamed of the curse that is his son's birthright.

I hope time will restore Shingen to his senses, but it is a very tenuous hope.

* * *

**Mushin  
1535**

* * *

It is safe to say we have given up. 

The woman Sen can no longer care for Miroku, because she is dead.

I can not care for Miroku, because I am drunk.

Shingen cannot care for Miroku because he is roving the brothels in Asakusa. And probably drunk.

Suffice to say, Miroku is in trouble.

We are even worse guardians than monks.

And we are very poor monks.

I suppose I feel responsible for the child, as Shingen is not likely to live long enough to see him come of age. Not at this rate.

Shingen still grieves for Saiko.

Naraku still hides.

The Kazaana still festers.

Miroku stands at my doorway now.

His stare is too intent for a four-year-old.

It is late, and he is hungry.

I should make him dinner.

After I finish this last bottle.

* * *

**Shingen  
1541**

* * *

The Kazaana throbs. 

The mark on my hand is my lifelong friend; I know it better than a man knows a lover.

I know how it feels now, and how it felt before.

I know the message it tells me.

_Tonight_, it says.

It will consume me tonight.

I am thankful.

I am so thankful.

The tears won't stop.

And I am ashamed.

Miroku will receive my curse today, if he is truly my son.

I pray that he is not.

The curse is too cruel for a child.

I will arrange a feast tonight; great food and dancing girls.

Then I shall die.

* * *

**Mushin  
1546**

* * *

For the first time in my life, I am alone at this temple. 

Miroku's training is complete, and while he seeks the demon Naraku I may seek that particular stage of intoxication where I do not think so much.

Miroku has done well.

I hope I did enough for him.

* * *

**Miroku  
1550**

* * *

I have managed the first step. 

I have located Naraku, and engaged him.

While I have succeeded where my father and grandfather have not, I must stress the fact that it is not my own skill which made this advance possible.

It is the Shikon Jewel which drew him from hiding, I am quite certain.

Though it was always my intention to fight alone as my father has done, I have nonetheless allied myself with a group of people who likewise have personal grudges against Naraku. They are trustworthy and skilled, and though I did not expect the alliance to last long – I mostly was with them to wait for opportunity to reclaim the jewel shards they had stolen – I found they were valuable as companions, and at this stage I can say I value their friendship as more important than anything else in my life.

Concerning Naraku, this is what has happened so far, to my knowledge:

After the Shikon no Tama returned to the world, Naraku reawakened and collected his power. Despite being dormant for forty years, his name remains legend among demons, and his influence on them is tremendous. Naraku apparently recognized the Taijiya as the only group with the proper infrastructure, skill, and intelligence to identify, secure, hide, and protect the jewel, and thus decided to target them. The demon wove himself into the Hitomi family, a minor Takeda clan. From the skills he has shown, he likely used possession, hypnosis, body-snatching, illusionary magic, and mundane deception to this effect.

From the Hitomi Castle Naraku designed a two-pronged attack against the Taijiya.

First, Naraku summoned demons to attack the castle, using this as a reason to call for the best Taijiya fighters for an extermination. Unfortunately for the Taijiya, Naraku proved himself to be a class of demon beyond the level that Taijiya could safely fight outside their home turf, and they were defeated quickly and soundly.

Second, Naraku used his legendary influence to collect, organize, conceal, and position an army of youkai of tremendous size within striking distance of the Taijiya village, far larger than anything the village's walls and guards were prepared to defend. With the element of surprise and the disposal of the village's leader and top fighters, the Taijiya village had little chance. The Taijiya bravely fought wave after wave of youkai over the course of the night, but by daybreak they had fallen to the last man.

Our group came to the village later that morning, and spent the day burying the dead.

As for those struck down at Hitomi Castle, there were two survivors who were treated as dead and buried in shallow graves. One, the daughter of the village chief, was tricked by Naraku into fighting us, but was quickly made aware of the situation and joined our group. The other, the son of the village chief, was resurrected by Naraku and has since been used as a tool against us. For this reason I must admit that calling him a "survivor" is a bit misleading.

In any case, the group of us – Inuyasha, the half-demon; Kagome-sama, the priestess; Sango, the demon-slayer; Kirara, her firecat; and Shippou, the kitsune – reached Hitomi Castle and fought Naraku. Kagome-sama drew the first blood; quite likely, this was the first strike Naraku has borne since my grandfather fought him nearly 50 years ago.

We have been chasing him ever since.

I now write this as I recover from Mushin's surgery on my hand, due to an injury unrelated to Naraku.

We leave in the morning.

* * *

**Miroku  
1552**

* * *

Naraku is dead. 

Naraku is dead.

Naraku is dead.

* * *

**Kagome  
1552**

* * *

I knew we would do it!

* * *

**Inuyasha  
1552**

* * *

I'm not writing in that stupid book. 

Because it's stupid.

Wait, what are you writing?

Are you writing everything I'm saying?

* * *

**Miroku  
1552**

* * *

Several weeks have passed. It is indeed certain. The Kazaana is gone. We have all survived. 

Kohaku has returned to the Taijiya village, by himself. I have spent some days in confidence with him, and Buddha's teachings have taken up the job that Kikyou's teachings have started. Healing is a lifelong process, and at this stage Kohaku has decided to begin rebuilding the Taijiya village.

* * *

**Sango  
1553**

* * *

Houshi-sama has told me I may write very important things in this journal. 

So I will write this.

Our child is born, and he is beautiful.

* * *

**Hajimemaru  
1554**

* * *

_(Ink splotches and handprints)_

* * *

_Let your love flow outward through the universe  
To its height, its depth, its broad extent  
A limitless love, without hatred or enmity.  
Then as you stand or walk  
Sit or lie down  
As long as you are awake  
Strive for this with a one-pointed mind.  
Your life will bring heaven to earth.  
-Buddha_

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I'm not sure this is the _first_ English-language Inuyasha fanfiction conceived and researched in a half-dozen temples from one end of Honshuu to the other, but I'm willing to bet it's one of very, very few. 

It's not that I have Inuyasha on the brain all the time, necessarily, but it seems high school girls in Tokyo spend their Sundays in cosplay around various temples and shrines. Thus the constant distraction of fanfiction.

I'm a really crappy student of Japanese culture, language, history, etc. but hopefully my brief (and soon to be repeated) self-immersion and embarrassing obsession with all things Japanese make up for it.

I sort of like the idea of treating Inuyasha as historical fiction, and I've always liked worldbuilding, so: this.

**Revelation:** I probably put across the impression that I take fanfiction way, way too seriously.

**Obvious:** I do not own Inuaysha. But Starzki owns me. :)


End file.
